Winds of Change
by Lala Kate
Summary: Sometimes hope springs up from the darkest of places. A one-shot of healing and moving forward. Dedicated to all who have survived hard times or been affected by senseless violence.


A breeze brushes against his neck, carrying with it the first scents of spring, the hint of new life in the air stealing some of the bluster from winter's last stand, even today.

Especially today. God damn it—especially today.

The final speech is drawing to an end, and he realizes with a stab of shame that he has missed most of it, his mind replaying the horror of what happened three years ago, even as he feels raw, healing emotions stretch and expand. His son is nearly asleep on his chest, his black curls so much like hers fluttering as another gust of wind blows by, chilling his nose as it tickles his neck. His son—his heart-this boy that doesn't remember his mother but knows far too many details of the manner in which she died.

Then her name is read, and a tear rolls down his cheek as descriptors and accolades are voiced reverently over the speakers: Librarian. Hero. One who gave her life to sound an alarm that alerted the other teachers and students to take cover immediately, being shot down in the process by two very disturbed young men, bleeding to death long before help could arrive.

Her blood given so that others might live. His stomach clenches again as the vision of her lifeless on the cold floor invades his subconscious. She died alone.

Yet how many more would have died had she not done what she had? The answer is too horrific to entertain—this he knows. But the pain of losing his wife is still there. No longer acute, but no less real.

Then the next name is read, and he gazes at the woman beside him, her black hair pillowing at the tug of another gust of wind. Head erect, eyes steady, hands trembling just slightly in her leather gloves, and her arm wraps around the shoulders of the boy beside her—a fatherless son, another child left with only one parent, a boy now on the cusp of manhood without a father to guide him through this confusing stage of life. Her husband—a biology teacher—the man who stepped in front of three other students, giving them the chance to flee to safety while he paid the ultimate sacrifice, the same sacrifice given by his wife.

His life for theirs. The sacrifice that brings them here today.

The new science lab is dedicated, named after those lost, and plaques are presented to both families with solemn words and handshakes, punctuated by hugs and nods of assurance. His son stirs and rubs bleary eyes, and he holds him as close as he can, feeling as though they stand on ground both cursed and sacred.

A ribbon is cut, applause is rendered, and the ceremony is over, beautifully and horribly over. The small crowd makes its way towards the school's entrance, but he stops, a cold sweat beading across his forehead, a wave of bile pushing its way up his throat.

"Are you going in?"

It is she, he realizes, and he looks at her directly, drinking something in from her gaze he hadn't realized he had needed but absorbs like a man dying of thirst.

"I…" he begins, dropping his head as too much hits him all at once. "I thought I could, but…"

She takes his hand then and squeezes it, and he grips it in return, holding on to his boy with his other arm as something implodes inside him.

"I know," she breathes, and she smiles through her tears, a sight both glorious and tragic. He's nodding then, still holding her hand, still unsure of what to do next as she clears her throat. "I don't want to go in, either."

Somehow they are now walking in the opposite direction, back towards the parking lot, away from still painful reminders and towards a release they all need. They move in a huddle of four, a lost pack of survivors clinging together in the cold aftermath of terror and loss.

"Why don't you two come over?" she questions, her voice low, her invitation more felt than heard. "We can order pizza, let the boys play the Wii."

It sounds ridiculous and out of place, but it's perfect—couldn't be more perfect, actually, and his heart lightens at her words. He smiles back at her finally, nodding before he can speak, swallowing until his voice is able to function.

"We'd like that," he answers, watching a stray tear make its way down her cheek, the tremble of her chin a shared sacrament. "Thank you."

She breathes into the air, the wind winding itself around them in some odd sort of benediction.

"It's time, isn't it?" she whispers, her inquiry carried to his ears and his soul, his body trembling as something new begins to take root, something vibrant and tender, a fragile shoot of life in a ground well-watered by death. "To move on, I mean?"

He cannot tell if his feet are still on the ground, and he feels something tingling just under his skin, awakening his pores, alerting his senses.

"Yes," he manages, sensing his late wife's approval shimmer over muscle and bone, understanding that the most fitting homage to those lost does not reside in the walls of a new laboratory or an honorary plaque, but dwells within the stubborn will to continue living, even when there is risk involved, even when they're frightened—especially when they're frightened.

"It is time."

It is then he realizes he has never let go of her hand. And he's not certain he ever will.


End file.
